


Eruv

by imperfectcircle



Series: Stories by theme: My arguments with canon [5]
Category: Lynes and Mathey Series - Amy Griswold & Melissa Scott
Genre: 19th century anglo-Jewish politics, Identity, Jewish magic, Jewish politics, Jews - Freeform, Land - Freeform, M/M, Magic, Victoriana
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 15:57:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3296225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectcircle/pseuds/imperfectcircle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was politics, pure and simple, diagrammed out by two metaphysicians incapable of framing complex systems any other way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eruv

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Raven (singlecrow)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/singlecrow/gifts).



> Happy birthday, raven! I love you very much indeed. 
> 
> All the thanks go to purplefringe, for workshopping Jewish metaphysics with me, listening to all my feels about 19th century British Jewish politics, adding plot brilliance by the bucket, and providing beta services. This story is much, much better for her contributions and patience.
> 
> Please note -- this is set directly after the second book, and spoils for most of the major plot points in it. I don't recommend reading this without having read the books.

The man sitting with Ned, their heads bent together over a single piece of paper, was instantly recognisable to Julian as a hearty. Whether or not he’d been part of Ned’s set at Oxford, and Julian couldn’t honestly say, he had the look of a man who’d happily wake up at 6am to go rowing. For all Ned’s sins, at least cricket practice had been restricted to daylight hours. 

Julian knocked on the inside of the door, suddenly self-conscious, and both men looked up. 

“Lynes!” Ned greeted him, unguarded pleasure on his face. “Good to see you, old man.” 

The rower gave Julian a friendly, bland smile, no doubt mentally cataloguing and dismissing him in turn, though along rather different lines. 

Ned stood to make introductions, ever the gracious host. The paper he and the rower had been pouring over was covered in neatly pencilled diagrams, metaphysical shorthands that looked far too theoretical for Julian’s tastes. 

“Taylor, this is my good friend Julian Lynes.” 

The name obviously meant something to the rower, whose bland smile became more genuine as he stood to shake Julian’s hand. “A pleasure to meet you.” Taylor’s grip was firm but not aggressive, straight from the textbook Julian assumed people like Taylor and Ned had been given at birth. 

“And Lynes, this is Mark Taylor, quite the most brilliant metaphysician ever to run a four and a half minute mile.” 

“Pleasure,” Julian said. “If I’m interrupting--?” He stopped himself before he could add that Miss Frost had told him to come straight in, aware it might sound defensive. They truly had been making headway on this, but his exposure to this side of Ned’s life was normally in controlled, pre-arranged doses, not sprung on him when he’d been expecting -- hoping for -- a quiet afternoon of conversation and metaphysics with his particular friend, perhaps segueing into a different kind of discourse. 

The smile on Ned’s face dimmed for a moment, then came back full force. “I rather think we could use your input.” He turned to Taylor. “I can vouch for Lynes utterly, of course.”

“Of course,” Taylor agreed. “It really is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr Lynes. Mathey here has been regaling me with some highlights from your recent adventures. Sour milk, ingenious!”

Julian couldn’t help a flush of pleasure at being so openly acknowledged by Ned, even if he was sure most of the details of that case had not been included. He settled himself in the chair opposite Ned and Taylor, and, with a glance at Ned for permission, began to examine the diagrams in earnest. 

The sigils and meta-cantrips were quite unlike anything he’d seen before -- some initialisations were performed in the Latin alphabet, of all things. He thought he could even make out-- Oh. Julian had to bite down on a laugh. What he’d taken for metaphysical shorthands were nothing of the sort -- this was politics, pure and simple, diagrammed out by two metaphysicians incapable of framing complex systems any other way. 

“This is about a vote?” he checked.

“Indeed.” Ned’s voice was rich with amusement and, perhaps, a little pride. 

“The Jewish difficulty,” Taylor clarified. 

Julian looked up sharply. He couldn’t expect Ned to answer for the politics of every blue he’d shared a drink with, but he’d thought Ned knew him well enough not to ask for his help in such a matter. 

Taylor, seeing his expression, burst out laughing. “I apologise. You see, I _am_ the Jewish difficulty. I had the great good fortune to be born Nathaniel Schneider, and while Mathey and I did, as he implies, meet at Oxford, the simple matter of communion meant I was not able to matriculate, so my qualifications, both athletic and metaphysical, do not come on parchment nearly as ornate as Mathey’s.” 

“Taylor is one of three elected members of the Society currently unable to take his seat in the Commons,” Ned added. “The others are de Rothschild and a Quaker by the name of Barber.”

Julian had been aware of de Rothschild’s case, but he hadn’t realised there were two others in a similar position, nor that Ned was so well acquainted with one of them. De Rothschild had been elected to the Society by the requisite simple majority, but was unable to take his seat in the Commons without taking the Five Oaths, all of which were Christian in nature. Since this was a constitutional matter, it required a full two-thirds majority to amend, which the Society had, as yet, not mustered. 

“But I thought that vote wasn’t until next year?” 

The Society had then appointed a panel to look into the matter further, which was due to report on its findings in December of this year, to inform a vote to be taken in February. To the delight of many, it transpired that any elected member could chair such a panel, regardless of his Oath status; and so, on a simple majority, The Royal Society of Metaphysicians’ Twelfth Convocational Panel On Oath Reform was duly headed by de Rothschild.

“The Convocation? Quite right,” Ned agreed. “But next week is the annual question of the canon, and allies of de Rothschild have put forward an inclusion proposal on domain designation.”

Julian tried to school his face into polite interest. From the amusement in Ned’s eyes, he did not succeed. 

“It’s quite all right,” Taylor said. “It’s terribly dull. But until the wise sitting members of the Society decide otherwise, it’s also non-conforming, and so who knows what havoc it might wreak on all Christendom?” 

Julian admired the way Taylor’s expression remained genial. He could stand to learn the trick of it. 

“Certainly not a people,” Taylor continued, “whose scholars have spent millennia debating the intricacies of this set of domain designations.”

Julian began to understand. “In a purely spiritual setting, of course.”

“But of course,” Taylor agreed. 

“Any proposals that reach the debate stage have already gone through rigorous theoretical and practical testing for both redundancy and inadvertent consequences,” Ned added. “Cases are then evaluated on three criteria: efficacy, extent and elegance.” He held up three fingers to illustrate. 

Faint recognition stirred somewhere in the back of Julian’s mind, but he barely concerned himself with the Society’s decrees, let alone the minutiae that went into their formation.

“Efficacy we have,” Ned continued, ticking off the first point on his fingers. “Drawing a clear, complete distinction between public, semi-public and private domains, especially one where shared and codified intent allows for multiple dwellings to be counted as one, will revolutionise protective warding.”

Taylor gave Ned a wry smile, which Ned returned, a hint of apology in his eyes. 

“Extent is normally trickier, but not so here.” Ned ticked off the second point. “We have the exact bounds of this proposal’s interactions with existing grammar. Well-established precedents place them squarely between ‘grand enough to be worth including’ and ‘not so grand as to frighten the horses’.”

“Almost,” Taylor added, “as if it had been chosen from a vast collection of possible candidates with those precedents in mind.”

“Indeed. And that brings us to our third criterion. Elegance.”

Julian may not have been familiar with the inner workings of the Society, but he knew a little bit about the inner workings of man. “What a helpfully nebulous concept.”

“Quite.” Taylor tapped a finger on the heavily diagrammed paper between them. “Elegance is a matter between each sitting member and his conscience.”

Now he knew what he was looking for, Julian could make out the hub of loyalties and favours that centred around various key members of the Society. Ned might like to pretend that he had neither the head nor the stomach for politics, but Julian remembered the boy from Tom’s who had navigated all-but impenetrable schoolboy factions with an ease Julian still couldn’t claim. He supposed it was good those skills were still useful for something. 

If he was reading this right, it didn’t look hopeless. De Rothschild and Taylor had, after all, been elected to the Society in the first place. 

“Do you need a simple majority?” he asked. “Or is this another two-thirds issue?”

Ned and Taylor shared an unreadable look. 

“Neither,” Ned said. “The vote is important, but the final decision rests with the Council.”

“So all this--?” Julian gestured down at the diagrams. 

“Yes.” Ned squared his shoulders, perhaps unconsciously. “The Council will vote against it, three-two. Jameson, Batton-Smyth and Sir Walter will vote against; Hawthorne and Parker will vote in favour. But if they go against the Commons vote, then next year, when it comes to the constitutional debates, we can use that to sway the moderates over to our side.” 

“And if by some caprice Batton-Smyth sees sense,” Taylor said, “then by February the demonstrable improvement in warding methods will only strengthen our case.”

But only if they won the Commons vote. Julian took another look at the diagrams in front of him. “How can I help?”

#

Not long after Taylor took his leave, Ned’s mind turned to food. 

“Shall we got to my club,” he asked Julian, “or have you had your fill of sportsmen for the day?”

Julian gave him a look that spoke of other activities entirely. “I wouldn’t say my fill.”

Ned fought a losing battle against his blush. “Then I shall certainly need to keep my strength up,” he managed. It was a weak effort, certainly not equal to the regard in Julian’s eyes, but it earned him a quiet laugh. 

“Perhaps the Thistle?” Julian asked, naming a public house not far from his lodgings. The food was unremarkable and the service unhurried, but it was a place where men could discuss business without being disturbed. 

They opted to walk to the Thistle, the weather not being too inclement. That the walk led them through St James Park was purest coincidence. 

Ned had always enjoyed being by the water. He was not one of nature’s rowers, but at Oxford he’d readily seen the appeal of a lazy afternoon watching broad-shouldered men hurtling along the Isis. Even without the added attraction, he found there was something peaceful about sitting by the river or, as today, strolling along the length of St James Park Lake. 

“You’ve got that look,” Julian said. 

Ned’s face froze, suddenly self-conscious. What had he been thinking about, exactly? Fond memories of burly men, or fonder thoughts about his current companion? He had no need to be embarrassed about the former in this company, and they seemed to have reached a pleasant accord on the latter. 

“Don’t,” Julian said. “I’m glad to see it. I think that’s the first time I’ve seen you content since before everything started last month.”

“Not the first time, surely?” Ned asked, keeping his voice innocent. They were at no risk of being overheard, but they were still in public. 

“Not happy: content,” Julian said. A duck scurried out in front of them, launching itself into the lake with all the grace and aplomb one might expect from its genus. “It was a rough business, and I truly am sorry about everything with Hatton.”

If Ned’s face had shown contentment, now it was surely gone. There had been a certain cooling between Hatton and him since the Hand of Glory case had forced disclosures, but in all honesty, he couldn’t blame it on the other man. Hatton had treated him no differently, not for his inversion nor for the obstruction of justice, and had even made a point of inviting him to bring Julian in on a particularly tricky murder last week. An “I suppose you might speak to that other one, Lyons, if you really must” from Hatton was as good as a gilt invitation from most people, but Ned hadn’t, and he wasn’t sure if he would again. 

Hatton was unique in knowing of Ned’s vices without sharing in them, and Ned was finding it hard to forgive him for that. 

“I’m making a hash of this,” Julian said, interrupting Ned’s thoughts before they could travel any further along this bleak line. “Tell me more about this business with Taylor and de Rothschild. A month ago you were cautioning me against even the slightest non-conforming technicality, and now you seem to be pushing for the very chaos you warned me against.”

Ned seized on the subject change gratefully. “Their metaphysics is so _good_ , Lynes. They were refining their metasyntactic equilibria while we were still messing around with cat gut. And it’s so adaptable, too -- that’s the key. This business with the domain designations comes from their Sabbath, of all things -- some rules about what you can carry where, I think, or something like that -- but it’s been refined down until it works not just within their system, but within the canonical grammar of whichever country they might find themselves. I know it’s all politics in the end, and I mustn’t set my heart on getting it in, but if we can -- in five years, perhaps, or ten, if not today -- then it could open the door for such efficiencies in the system.”

Julian looked a little taken aback by Ned’s fervour, but he had asked. “Goodness.”

“That’s how I fell in with Taylor, back at Oxford. He had a way of coming at problems quite different from the orthodoxy, but still within the grammar.”

Julian took his arm suddenly, steering him away from the duck leavings in his path. He let go again, but the warmth of his hand against Ned’s elbow lingered. 

Ned thanked him, then continued, “You know, back then I always thought the two of you would get along. But he wasn’t quite part of the usual set, of course.” And, he didn’t add, it would have seemed strange to introduce them otherwise. 

“Then I am glad to meet him now,” Julian said, kindly allowing the rest to remain unspoken. He took Ned’s arm again, stopping them at a point where any two men might pause to take in the view in relative privacy. “Listen, Ned, I must ask you: this business with Challice. Could it be done?”

For a single, heart-stopping moment, Ned thought Julian was making a request. Julian had never tried to be normal, perhaps knowing a fool’s bet when he saw one, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want it. 

“Good God, man, not for me!” Julian exclaimed, reading Ned’s face with more ease than Ned was perhaps comfortable with. “For Challice. He and his wife came to see me. Together.”

Ned wanted to say no. No, of course not, if it could be done then logically it would already have been done. But honesty compelled him to answer: “In theory. But think very carefully about what you’re asking me, Lyons. You--” They were in public, still in public. “Take your young lady,” he said. 

“My young lady,” Julian repeated, amused. “She has the most beautiful eyes.”

Ned cursed the flush creeping up his neck. “I’m delighted to hear it.” Two could play at that game. “Your feelings for your young lady, how would you categorise them?”

Julian’s mouth snapped shut with gratifying speed. 

“Carnal, of course,” Ned pushed on. “But what else? How, exactly, would you itemise your emotions?”

Was that a hint of red rising in Julian’s cheeks? Ned rather thought it was. Julian looked out at the lake and took a breath. “Damn it, Ned, you have to know I--” He swallowed, then visibly girded himself. 

Ned stopped him before the apoplexy set in. “I’m sorry, that was cruel of me. I’m sure she knows exactly how you feel. Let us take instead your Greeks with their four loves.” He held up four fingers. “Agape, eros, philia, storge.” He was conscious that he pronounced them with a metaphysician’s accent, which Julian had once admitted he found rather charming. “Perhaps the Greeks were content to separate them out, but I believe a modern man, if he were suitably ambitious, might seek to find all four in a single companion.” It was easier to say if he didn’t look directly at Julian, if he pretended instead that he was lecturing in the theoretical, a humble metaphyician explaining a complex grammatical issue. “But our grammar is not so ambitious, and separates out the loves very roughly along classical lines -- which means, of course, that if you were to grant your friend his wish, you would need to put together four different cantrips, all extremely powerful, none interacting pairwise or in multiplicity with any degree of unpleasantness, and all capable of lasting the length of a natural life.”

He risked a glance at Julian, who was nodding in thought. 

“If the entire Commons worked together for thirty years on this single problem, I’m sure they would find a solution. But to the best of my knowledge the entire Commons has never come together on anything more substantial than our annual feast, and even then there are always tears before bedtime.”

Two ducks swam hopefully towards them, perhaps expecting the remains of a loaf of bread. They quacked their disappointment into the silence between the two men. 

“I see.” Julian spoke slowly. That was never a good sign. “Could another tradition, then, highly organised and with its own understanding of the limitations and uses of -- purely spiritual -- designations, produce such a thing?”

Ned looked at him sharply. “That kind of talk does not help anyone.”

Julian, to his credit, looked first confused and then ashamed. And why would he have made the connection between his question and some of the older slurs? Most Englishmen went their entire lives without ever thinking about the Jews as anything more than Shakespeare’s vengeful moneylender and Dickens’ wicked street-conjuror. The lie that Jews used non-conforming metaphysics to forcibly convert Christian children had a long and inglorious history, but was no longer the first thing that sprung to an educated man’s mind.

“I apologise,” Julian said. “That was badly done.”

Ned took in a breath and looked out over the lake. It was possible Julian had brought him here to ease the tensions of this conversation; if so, he was grateful. 

“I hadn’t thought of it until I was saying it,” Julian continued. “I should have let it percolate a little longer.” 

Ned recognised an escape when he was being handed one on a platter. “You’ve clearly learned from your Napieric coffee burner.”

“There is nothing wrong with my coffee maker,” Julian retorted, allowing them to bicker on towards dinner.

#

The first time Ned had eaten with Taylor and his family, he had been more than a little apprehensive. It was one thing to share a love of cricket and metaphysics with a fellow student, quite another to impose upon his wife’s hospitality, especially when the very existence of a wife marked Taylor out from their peers. Being unable to matriculate, Taylor had seen no reason to be bound by Oxford’s prohibition of marriage, and -- more striking still -- had brought his wife with him from London.

Taylor had assured him that a dinner guest would be no bother, and Ned had been wary of the offence a refusal might cause, so he had made his way one evening to a quiet, unassuming house not far from St Giles, shoes shined and most charming smile in place. 

The door was answered by a maid who attempted to usher him in and take his coat while keeping a young child from rushing out into the road. 

Ned had scooped up the child under one arm and presented it to the maid, who grinned at him, gap teeth showing in a pretty face, and said, “You might as well take him in with you. Mrs Taylor won’t mind.”

Ned turned the child to face him. “What do you say, old thing? Shall we find your mother?”

The child -- John, the maid supplied -- stuck out his tongue and giggled. Ned, no expert in the language of youth, decided to take that as a yes.

Ned entered the drawing room with John on his hip, frowning in concentration as he tried to balance a toddler and his dignity. That broke the ice better than any trick he had learned before or since; even now there were times he wished he could bring a small child with him to smooth his path in life. 

Mrs Taylor -- Emmy, née Hofstadt -- and her brother, Mayer Hofstadt, were delightful company, easy and warm with a hint of a Germanic accent that only added to their charm. Ned liked them instantly, and he found he liked even more the change in Taylor when he was with them. It was hard to describe, and Ned had found himself dwelling on it, trying to quantify it with a metaphysician’s eye. Taylor was always genial, always a good sport; he didn’t have a natural shyness to overcome, nor a careworn face to be smoothed into ease. 

The closest Ned had come to understanding it at the time was to think of his own last year at Tom’s, when he and Julian had shared only one class together, mathematics. They weren’t seated near each other, nor would they have dared to talk under the stern eye of Dr Wiles, but it had somehow been easier to be in that room, knowing that Julian was there too. 

The meal itself had been rich and filling, far exceeding both the quality and the quantity Ned had come to expect from hall. The conversation had flown freely between all four of them, Mrs Taylor’s laughter and opinions startling to Ned, though he now knew she had been uncharacteristically demure. 

The discussion had soon turned to the prodigious achievements of the Taylors’ son.

“John’s English will soon be better than mine,” Mrs Taylor said proudly.

To Ned’s ear, only a trace of an accent and a slight over-precision revealed Mrs Taylor as anything but an English speaker since birth. He wasn’t sure if a contradiction would flatter the mother or insult the son.

“Only a mother could hear Wordsworth in ‘more jam’ or ‘want push,’” Hofstadt retorted. “No, he is a bright boy, your son, but his true talents are surely mathematical.” 

Hofstadt then launched into a story about John, two bottles of milk and a teaspoon, the point of which seemed to be John’s advanced logical reasoning. Taylor interjected at various points, laughing as he offered alternative interpretations of John’s actions; Mrs Taylor merely laughed and topped up their glasses, the maid having disappeared once dinner had been served. 

It had been after that dinner -- and the warm invitations to return -- that Ned had set about courting women in earnest. If he wanted what Taylor had, he had known even then he would have to work for it.

#

Julian woke while it was still dark, Ned’s arm slung comfortingly over his chest and Ned’s snores gentle in his ear. They could not risk this often, but he was damned if he wasn’t going to risk it at all, not after they’d taken so long to reach this point. 

Perhaps he was damned anyway.

Agape, eros, philia, storge. He had protested quickly enough when Ned had thought he wanted a metaphysical cure, and he had to admit Ned’s horror had been gratifying, unworthy as that was. But alone in the dark, sated and held, he could admit to himself that a part of him was relieved not to have the choice. 

At Tom’s, all he had wanted was an escape. Ned had saved him, again and again, and he would always be grateful for that. But it had been a construct of circumstance: there was no need for such things in a world where one had one’s freedom and a door that locked. 

At Oxford, he had discovered himself. He was not a schoolboy vice, to be outgrown and forgotten along with seven years of overcooked rice pudding. He was liked, respected and enjoyed, and he could be damned proud of all three, at least within the privacy of their own set. He didn’t get in the habit of forming attachments, but he had no need to -- what only Ned had seemed to see in him at Tom’s, suddenly a dozen young men, some even more dashing than Ned, were able to comprehend. 

The joy of his Oxford days had stayed with him for his first years in London. There were clubs for people like him, there was a whole world for people like him, and he had choices, suddenly, more than he’d ever had before. There were men who lived as he had in Oxford, cheerfully moving between one lover and the next without recrimination, and there were men who loved, who formed attachments as true and real as any Julian had seen between man and wife. He couldn’t think of those days without the pall cast by what had happened to so many of that set -- what had nearly happened to Ned, too -- but it was a time of great value to him, whatever else had come from it. 

And then, now. Perhaps for the first time, Julian truly saw why a man like Challice would want to be normal. He had understood before, in the same way that he could be said to understand a complex cantrip, but just as his understanding of the latter was facile compared to Ned’s, his understanding of the former had been lacking. 

Ned twitched in his sleep, his foot kicking gently against Julian’s ankle. What was he dreaming about, and was he happy? Julian was hit by a sudden rush of something too fond to be denied. He did love Ned, he really did, and it was as powerful and as wonderful as he’d ever dared hope love could be. But with it came the knowledge of what he was missing, and what Ned was missing by being the same way. Normal men who married -- some, at any rate -- felt this way about their wives. 

He was achingly, fiercely glad that he couldn’t choose that path. He couldn’t say for certain what he would do, if offered a love like this but better, a love like this but crafted to fit into the world. 

#

 

The problem with the vote, as Julian understood it, was that they couldn’t bully or threaten. No man strong-armed into voting for something in July could be expected to view it favourably come February. 

Julian didn’t like to see himself in the role of the bully, but he was uncomfortably aware that these limitations hit him hard. He had accumulated a large number of connections over the course of his work, but there were few if any he could exploit here. 

And yet. Julian was no Ned, but he did occasionally learn a new trick. 

“Tea, dear boy?” Lennox offered as soon as the maid had shown Julian in. He rose from his writing desk to greet Julian with a firm handshake and -- once the maid had shut the door – a quick, closed-mouth kiss. 

“Lennox,” Julian protested for form’s sake. Ned wouldn’t mind; it was only Lennox, after all. 

“Lynes,” Lennox said, matching him for tone. “And you without your paragon. I hope this is a social call? I’m not sure I have the stomach for another of your emergencies.”

Julian never knew how it was that people like Ned and Lennox could read his reactions when the rest of the world seemed to miss them completely. Some tell, he suspected -- a barely perceptible flinch, perhaps, or tightness around his eyes. Whatever it was, Lennox had seen it now:

“No, no, dear heart, sit down. I only tease -- if it is trouble, I’m sure we’ll deal with it. That last incident could barely be classed as an emergency. If anything, it was a difficulty with pretensions.”

Julian sat down gratefully. As if on cue, the maid re-entered with a tray of tea things. The china was elegantly patterned rose on white, very a la mode; Bolster’s second best fence had offered such a set to Julian the last time they’d done business together. 

“It’s not that,” Julian said when the tea had been poured and the maid had made a discreet exit. “I was hoping for some advice.”

Lennox smiled knowingly, and Julian was struck by the thought that Ned might, in fact, mind that earlier kiss. 

“Then I am at your service.” He raised his cup to Julian in salute. 

Julian began to explain -- about Ned, and Taylor, and the vote, and the convocation. Lennox made encouraging noises, interrupting only to ask the occasional question -- how many votes were already assured? What would count as an acceptable victory? An overwhelming one?

“How delightful!” Lennox exclaimed when Julian had finished. “That is quite a charming problem. And the vote isn’t until next week, you say?”

“Tuesday.”

“Excellent. Well, I’ll think on it, and when you come to the club this evening, I’m sure I’ll have something for you.” 

Julian tried not to feel disappointed. Last time had been an emergency; this time the problem was much smaller and less urgent. Of course Lennox wouldn’t immediately spring into action. Tonight still gave them several days to work with. 

“To be, for a moment, indelicate,” Lennox said, “even given the conclusion of the whole affair, your recent actions left you in a position to ask for quite a large favour from certain members of our government. I wouldn’t advise you to take that route here, but it would be remiss of me not to offer.” 

Frankly, Julian was just happy he and Ned had escaped that whole sorry mess with their lives and reputations intact. He hadn’t even considered that they might be in credit with Lennox’s friends -- but Lennox had spoken as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. He felt an unaccountable warmth at the thought of others being a little more secure in their lives for his and Ned’s help. 

It was an odd thing, to feel connected to men he’d never met over nothing more than a shared predilection and aligned self-interest. Even so, he had to admit that he did feel a connection, and he didn’t want to reduce it to an exchange of favours and obligations, even for Ned. 

“No,” he said at last. “Thank you, but --” He tailed off, unsure how to continue without causing offence. “Thank you,” he said instead. 

Lennox nodded. “Quite right. Now if you’ve finished with your tea?”

Julian took his cue. 

“I’ll see you tonight, dear boy. Leave your paragon at home!”

#

Miss Frost returned from her lunch late but unhurried, carrying a small parcel tucked firmly under one arm. 

“I’m sorry, Mr Mathey,” she said when she saw him waiting. “I hadn’t realised you needed me?” Her tone remained perfectly civil, perhaps even apologetic, but Ned couldn’t escape the feeling he was being chided for something. 

“No, not at all.” Ned decided to take her words at face value. “I was just hoping to ask your advice.”

She gave him an appraising look and began to tug her gloves off, one finger at a time. The package sat between them on her desk, unacknowledged and unexplained. If it hadn’t been for the way she was carefully not looking at it, Ned might not have given it another thought. 

“What a coincidence,” she said. “I was hoping to ask for you for the same.”

Ned offered a swift prayer that she was referring to a metaphysical matter. He couldn’t think of any other area where his competence outstripped hers -- and even there, he was increasingly aware the gap was not quite what he’d been taught to believe. 

“Please,” he said. “Go ahead.”

“A friend of mine has just had a healthy baby boy.”

Ned was well aware that Miss Frost could see his fear. He hoped she found it sufficiently entertaining -- he dreaded to think what might happen if she didn’t. 

“She’s been sewing cantrips into his clothes,” Miss Frost continued. “Nothing out of the ordinary, I checked. They’re all perfectly safe household work -- half of them nonsense, the rest not exactly potent. You know the sort.”

Ned wasn’t sure he did. He nodded slowly. “This is normal practice?” he asked. He supposed it would work for the more basic kind of cantrip, but he didn’t quite see the use. Surely drawing the cantrip directly onto the clothing would be more effective? One could then charm the colour not to run on exposure to moisture, although perhaps that wasn’t a household skill.

“There are lace shops that sell threads dyed with Powders of India,” Miss Frost confirmed, “but even without, some are remarkably effective. I suspect it’s linked to intent -- the act of sewing directly into the clothing may not be taught at Oxford, but it can lend clarity and focus, especially if performed by a mother for her child.”

“Of course. That’s brilliant,” Ned said sincerely. “I suppose the continuous thread makes up for any difficulties in precision?”

Miss Frost looked at him curiously. “Why would there be any difficulties in precision?”

“I just thought-- Never mind. Let us leave my ignorance to one side. You said you’d like my advice?”

Thankfully, Miss Frost did not press. “My friend has found her son doesn’t react well to one of the better established protective cantrips.” She sketched it briefly in the air. Very standard, the sort of thing Ned barely even thought of as metaphysics. “His father, I believe, was once violently sick after eating mushrooms.”

For a moment, Ned didn’t follow. But oh, that was clever. If performed over the square of Venus, the cantrip contained the metaphysical symbol for fungus. That might be, he supposed, why he’d always seen it performed with Mars, though he’d never really thought about it before. But yes, if the child had a constitutional aversion to mushrooms, that might be seen in its reaction to the symbol. 

“But why doesn’t she just perform it over the square of Mars?” he asked, then thought about what he’d said. “Sorry, of course, the closing act, my mistake. Could she perhaps use the French method?” He sketched out a similar cantrip developed along French lines; its base was mineral, not vegetable. 

Miss Frost beamed, sudden and triumphant. It disappeared near instantly, replaced with a demure smile, but Ned felt strangely touched that he’d been allowed to see it at all. 

“That was my thought,” she said. “I wanted a second opinion, in case I had missed any unintended consequences.”

“It wouldn’t do to experiment on a child,” Ned agreed. “But yes, perfectly safe, unless his father has ever reacted poorly to graphite.”

Miss Frost made a quick note of the cantrip, folding the piece of paper and tucking it neatly under the string around her package. “Aggie will be delighted. And what can I do for you, Mr Mathey?”

“Is that the clothing?” Ned asked, motioning at the package.

Miss Frost gave him another assessing look. “Yes. We thought it might be safer out of the house, until we understood the problem.”

Very proper. “I’d be grateful,” Ned said, “if I could see the embroidery once it’s finished. I’ve never had a chance to examine this sort of work closely.” 

Miss Frost kindly didn’t suggest that this might be because he hadn’t until now known of its existence. She didn’t seem unhappy at his interest, though; he was glad of that. 

“And your problem?” she prompted again. 

“It’s the question of the canon. Again, I’m afraid.”

He and Taylor had already used Miss Frost as their eminently sensible sounding board several times over the last two weeks. 

“I rather thought it might be. You and Mr Taylor have been working very hard -- I think I’ve barely seen Mr Lynes here at all recently.”

Ned wasn’t sure what that had to do with anything. “We were sure if we got Newport to our side, then Worthing would follow. But now Taylor thinks Worthing is going to blanket vote against all the amendments on principle.”

“Principle?” Miss Frost repeated. “How inconvenient.”

“Indeed. Do you think it’s worth concentrating on Newport now we know he’s only worth one vote?”

Miss Frost considered this for a minute. “What elevated Worthing to this lofty position?”

“He hasn’t been elevated quite yet. But De Rothschild indicated to Taylor that Worthing’s paper on the four spheres will be rejected on Monday. Unfortunate timing, but de Rothschild couldn’t delay it without jeopardising another ally’s interests.” 

“I do so admire a man of principle,” Miss Frost said dryly. “I would continue to woo Newport. I believe his sister has an understanding of sorts with one of your undecided gentlemen -- one that might depend in part on Newport’s approval.”

“Miss Frost,” Ned said admiringly. “You terrify me.”

#

After Oxford, Ned and Taylor had drifted apart. Ned’s first years in London were not something he looked back on with pride; he could admit now that his distance from Taylor had come in part from that. Even knowing himself and his desires too well to continue pursuing women, he had still wanted what Taylor had, and he had not liked himself for the jealousy that crept into their interactions. 

Matters had been taken out of his hands just under a year into his time in London. Taylor had come to find him in the Commons, eventually tracking him down in the office he shared with two other juniors, all three of them working fiercely to build up the skills and reputation they would need to strike out on their own. 

Taylor was in mourning clothes -- black gloves, hatband and cravat -- with a torn black ribbon pinned to his jacket. Ned couldn’t remember what he had been doing at the time, but he could remember the honest sympathy he had felt, and his regret that he had not been there to support Taylor without being asked. 

“Emmy’s father,” Taylor had said by way of explanation. 

Ned had shaken his hand firmly, trying to convey something of his feeling in the gesture. “My deepest condolences, old man.”

“Thank you.”

The reason Taylor had sought Ned out, he explained in the somewhat shabby ‘private consulting suite’ the three juniors had created in a disused box room, was that his father in law had been something of a metaphysician. 

Ned was then treated to a quick exposition on the Talmudic taxonomy of metaphysics. Under this system, metaphysics was not split naturally by the heavenly bodies, but instead fell into four categories, three derived from types of work that Taylor said were loosely translated as writing, making two loops, and igniting a fire, and the final one seen as devotional. Writing was self-explanatory: any written metaphysics, of course, came under this type. Igniting a fire referred to the bringing together of different materials to perform metaphysics, something that was fortunately now largely non-conforming. Making two loops was the tricky one and, unfortunately, the one that concerned them. It referred to any joining of separate letters or symbols in the traditional Jewish grammars, and so could occur even when the action in the modern grammar appeared to use only a single symbol. For their purposes, Taylor said, Ned could think of devotional metaphysics as anything that didn’t fall into the other three categories. 

Jewish tradition held that writing and igniting a fire constituted ‘work’ only at the point of action. Writing remained written after the pen had left the page; a fire could burn long after it was first ignited. However, the action of making two loops was a continuous one, and while the loops were in existence the work was ongoing. Any metaphysics of this type had to be discontinued on the Jewish sabbath, which Ned thought he might have vaguely known, and also in the event of the metaphysician’s death, which Ned had certainly not known. 

“So the soul can rest unhindered,” Taylor explained. 

Ned bit down on his natural curiosity. It was indeed fascinating, but he suspected Taylor would not welcome fifteen questions about the precise boundaries of each category, and where overlapping techniques fell. 

“Of course, in our religion, the deceased must be buried within a day of passing, and all necessary work dismantled before this takes place.” 

That explained where Ned came in. “How can I help?”

Taylor gave him a grateful smile. “Thank you, Mathey. I really do regret imposing on you like this--”

“Nonsense. I’m at your service. Am I -- I’m not quite sure how to put this -- would it be permitted for me to help directly with this task?”

“It depends who you ask,” Taylor said. “But within our tradition, all help is allowed and appreciated, as long as we don’t disturb the primary mourners. And that would be the same restriction on Jew or Gentile.”

They took a cab to Taylor’s father in law’s house, and began work on his household wards straight away. 

Ned had been a little ashamed to find himself enjoying the task, but Taylor had always been a pleasure to work with, and this kind of metaphysics posed an interesting challenge. He was at a disadvantage not knowing the Jewish traditional grammars, but soon picked up the similarities with existing Germanic conventions, and by the end of the afternoon had even noticed a linking charm on the roses that Taylor had overlooked. 

Taylor had been unable to invite him in, of course, but after the period of mourning was completed, he and Ned had renewed their friendship as if Ned had never let it slip away. 

#

Julian felt his shoulders relax the moment he crossed the threshold of Jacobs’. He was relieved he had already used up his supply of introspection for the month, or he might have had to think about that further. 

Lennox hadn’t arrived yet, so he got himself a brandy and soda and scanned the room for distractions. Fortunately, one appeared instantly in the form of Smith, the cricketer’s shadow Ned had, of course, befriended. 

Julian raised his glass in greeting, and Smith all but bounded over. 

“Evening, old chap,” Smith said, all friendly smile and open countenance. “How’s things?”

“Can’t complain,” Julian said, trying to remember something sufficiently jolly and cricket-themed to ask Smith about. He couldn’t quite bring himself to regret having distracted Ned from that very topic last night, but it did put him at something of a disadvantage. “And yourself?”

“Oh, very good, very good,” Smith said. “I’d been hoping to run into you, as it happens.”

Julian schooled his face into something encouraging. 

“Your friend, the metaphysical cricketer chap.”

Never had there been a more perfect description of Ned. 

“My uncle dabbles in that kind of thing -- I think he established some sort of charitable fund for widows and orphans of their Royal Society, or something similar. All very lofty and quite above me. But when Lennox happened to mention that your friend was interested in some vote or other, I got to thinking--”

When Julian left the club four hours and several brandies later, it was with three firm promises of assistance, five good-natured offers to see what could be done, and not even a glimpse of Lennox himself. 

#

There were four hundred and thirty three voting members of the Society, of whom perhaps thirty could be counted on to abstain or be absent. On Friday afternoon, Ned and Taylor had parted company with ninety votes assured. When they reconvened on Monday, they had one hundred and twelve. Since Taylor had spent the intervening time with his family, and Ned had spent it largely with Julian, they weren’t entirely sure they could take any credit for this. 

“Did de Rothschild--?” Ned ventured. 

“He’s as surprised as we are,” Taylor said. “He laughed. It sounded like a distressed cat trying to get out of a tin bath.” 

“Or Russell--?” Ned asked, naming a political ally of de Rothschild’s. 

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Well.” There wasn’t much else to say on the matter. “Shall we take a final look at your speech?”

While Taylor wasn’t allowed to take his seat in the Commons, and hence could neither speak in debates nor vote in their outcomes, there was no rule against another speaking on his behalf. Ned, of course, had been perfectly willing to act as Taylor’s proxy, but they’d both felt that it would emphasise the breadth of the amendment’s appeal if another ally were to read out his arguments. 

“Duncombe will be thrilled with further alterations, I’m sure,” Taylor said. 

Ned waved the protest off. Taylor’s speech was good, and Duncombe was lucky to be reading it. It was short, compelling, and absolutely correct -- what more could an argument need, save a month’s worth of backroom politicking to make it stick? 

Taylor took the pages from his briefcase. “My learned etc,” he began, not looking at the paper in front of him. “Elegance is the marriage of beauty and simplicity. I cannot speak to the beauty of this proposal, for you will rightly identify my bias in the matter, but I hope to convince you of its simplicity.”

Ned found he was mouthing along the words with Taylor.

“Land is property, secured with title and deed. Home is no less real. Our honourable counterparts in Westminster recently created the Land Registry to tackle the myriad difficulties around ownership of the former; this frees us to consider only the latter.

“Think of your own home. Is it in the bricks and mortar of your house, or is it in the power we have invested in them? A locked door may bar entry, but to cross that barrier uninvited is not merely a crime of property, it is an affront to the most deeply held understanding of what is ours. An open door, in turn, and meals shared together in a spirit of perfect harmony, these too are understood on a level deeper than our existing grammar can capture in a simple public/private divide. 

“This amendment will only formalise what we already know to be true. Home has a meaning.”

Ned let out a breath. “Duncombe should be thanking you from the bottom of his heart,” he said sincerely. “He will never have looked more intelligent.”

They sat in silence for a moment, contemplating Duncombe’s intelligence.

There was a sharp knock on the door. 

“Mathey,” Julian said, rushing in with two copies of the Times. “Taylor. You’ll want to take a look at this.”

_**Police Call For Better Metaphysical Wards** _

_Speaking today to our correspondent, Inspector Hatton of the Metaphysical Crimes Squad urged for improvements to residential safety through stronger and more robust metaphysical warding._

_"Metaphysics has improved countless British lives and helped make London the great city she is today," Hatton said. "We can only stand to benefit from extending to her residents the powerful protection already used by some of her finest institutions."_

"I'm not sure which I would prefer," Julian said when Ned looked up. "If he'd gritted his teeth and actually said that, or if he told them --" His voice dropped to a growl. "-- 'Just say wards are a damned good thing and more people should have them' and the first he saw of their translation was on the front page."

Ned wanted to join in with Julian's good humour, but he couldn't quite take it in. 

"But Hatton hates wards," he protested. "He thinks they're a nuisance at best--" 

"And dangerous the rest of the time," Julian finished for him. "I know. But I explained what was going on, and he said anything that would bloody the mouth of that idiot Jameson was fine by him."

That sounded more like Hatton; Jameson had attempted to force the Metaphysical Squad to report directly to the Society. But Julian's tone and the pricking of Ned's conscience told a different story. He privately vowed to take Hatton out to dinner next time he was at the station. 

“Hatton is your colleague at Scotland Yard?” Taylor checked. Ned had mentioned him, of course, in a highly edited version of his recent adventures. 

He wasn't going to be the kind of man who held a grudge over something that was entirely his own doing. Hatton was a thoroughly good man, and he deserved better than that. 

"He was happy to help, Ned," Julian said softly. "I think he was even not too disgruntled to see me."

Ned nodded his acknowledgement, grateful that Taylor wasn’t asking anything further. He had lost a privacy he'd hoped to keep forever, but his behaviour here had moved from childish to unpleasant. "I owe that man dinner," he said wryly.

"You could always offer to ward the Yard,” Julian suggested.

Ned barked a laugh. "Do you know, I think I might."

They shared a moment in silent contemplation of the look on Hatton’s face.

“This was your suggestion?” Taylor asked Julian.

“It was suggested to me in turn,” Julian said. “Lennox,” he added to Ned. 

“Then you are coming to dine with us this evening,” Taylor said in a voice that brooked no argument. “My wife will want to meet you.”

Ned enjoyed the look of polite panic that flashed across Julian’s face. Poor Julian, so confused and bewildered by good manners and warm regard. Emmy Taylor would adore him. 

“Do come, Lynes,” Ned said. “I’ve run out of tricks to show John -- you can teach him how to count cards.”

Taylor looked at Ned sharply, but with good humour. “This must be the corrupting influence my rabbi warned me about.”

Ned grinned, delighted by the weekend’s gains, by Hatton’s kindness, by the evening of warmth and laughter he saw stretching out before him. “At your service.”

#

It was clear from the off that the Taylors adored Ned, and for that alone Julian liked them. 

He was worried at first about causing offence. He’d never been to a Jewish house before, and while it was infinitely easier to do so with Ned at his side, he couldn’t rely on the man for help. Ned was often very good at remembering Julian’s social difficulties, but he had a tendency to forget at the most inconvenient moments -- and then be surprised when Julian put his foot in it. 

But Julian needn’t have worried. While he may have been unused to dining with Jews, the Taylors were no stranger to hosting Gentiles. Earnest smiles, straightforward explanations and a shared willingness for the evening to go well brushed them over his first difficulties, and by the time they were seated for dinner -- Taylor; Mrs Taylor; her brother, Mayer Hofstadt; Julian and Ned -- Julian found himself relaxing. 

Mrs Taylor had once, he suspected, been exactly the kind of girl Ned had pursued at Oxford -- lively, beautiful, witty, a thousand other adjectives Julian had done his best not to dwell on. She was now a mother of two and mistress of her own home, with a loud laugh and opinions at least as firm as any of the men’s. 

Hofstadt’s shared his sister’s pale skin, dark eyes and rich laughter. He was somewhat closer to what Julian thought of as Jewish in appearance than Taylor, but it gave him an attractive, continental air that would no doubt have gone down very well at the Dionysus. He worked in the City, though in what capacity no one explained. 

The real revelation of the evening, however, was Ned. Julian had been prepared to see him happy and relaxed, had even braced himself against any wistfulness he might feel to see Ned surrounded by the kind of family he was unlikely to have for himself. He had expected to be sidelined, a happy audience to this happy scene. 

He had not expected for Ned to show him off to their hosts with every sign of pride. 

“Lynes was the only one who knew the first thing about the Hand, of course,” Ned was saying. “I was completely in the dark.”

“Our hero twice over,” Mrs Taylor said. “First saving dear Mr Mathey, now convincing your police officer to speak on our behalf.”

Julian muttered something non-committal. 

“Emmy, dear, don’t frighten him off before desert,” her brother chided. “We barely saw Mathey at all this past year, just because your husband wasn’t around to lure him home --” Taylor had, apparently, been largely in Germany since last April, and Ned’s consequent absence was a point of some contention. “-- and now we have two sources of information about his exploits. Mr Lynes, what can you tell us about Mathey’s year of sin and iniquity?”

A burst of laughter from both the Taylors saved Julian from making an immediate response. 

“I have been the perfect gentleman,” Ned said primly. “Not even a late night to shock my landlady.”

“Your landlady wouldn’t protest if you dragged an entire brass band home at four in the morning,” Julian pointed out.

“Does he still do that?” Taylor asked. “He could charm any landlady he set his cap at -- what was the name of that old dragon, the one with the unfortunate eye?”

“Mrs Jones,” Ned supplied. “And she was a perfectly lovely.”

“To you!” Taylor laughed. “I knew the chap who took your room after you left -- he lived in fear.” 

Julian laughed, enjoying Ned’s protestations. It was nice to be reminded he wasn’t the only one without Ned’s talents. 

The conversation meandered cheerfully through the main course, only settling on the vote as they began to tuck into a rather nice lemon soufflé. It seemed Taylor, Mrs Taylor and Hofstadt were not in perfect accord. 

There was some worry in the Society that adopting Jewish concepts into the canon would give Jewish metaphysicians an advantage in its use. Several thousand years of -- purely spiritual -- metaphysical discussion couldn’t help but put them in pride of place to exploit the concept to the full. 

In the Taylor-Hofstadt family, there were two schools of thought on this. Taylor’s, which had won out, was that the best way to tackle this problem was to remove the advantage -- to this end, a large collection of (purely spiritual) texts had been donated to the Society’s library, sharing knowledge that had previously been solely Jewish. Julian was not surprised that some Jews objected to this, but he was a little taken aback to find one of them was Taylor’s own wife.

“Indeed! Why shouldn’t we give away every part of ourselves if it will appease them?” She paused, patted Ned on the hand. “Not you, dear.” Then, to her husband, “Not that it will.”

“Instead we should sequester ourselves away,” her husband retorted, “shunning all but the Chosen People until Judgement Day?”

Julian half expected him to give Ned a similar reassuring pat. 

Hofstadt opted out of the discussion. “Two Jews, three opinions,” he said quietly to Julian. “so what do they need me for?”

The Taylors argued on. This was not, Julian learned, the first time such a tactic had been tried -- Taylor’s recent time in Germany had been spent, in part, attempting to untangle the mess resulting from a similar donation to a metaphysical institution unequipped to handle it. 

“And then they’ll blame us again,” Mrs Taylor said. “What was that phrase John brought home the other day? ‘Can’t do right for doing wrong’?”

“We can’t do right by doing nothing, either, my love,” Taylor said. 

Ned was watching them in rapt delight. Julian imagined loosening his collar, propping his chin on his hands. 

#

Ned thought Julian had enjoyed himself. Certainly, as they walked home, Julian managed a few genuine words in praise of the Taylors’ manner and conversation. 

“I am glad you liked them,” Ned said, the wine and good company singing in his veins. “They’ve been very kind to me.”

They were crossing Russell Square, just past the British Museum. In a few minutes they would have to decide whether to part company for the evening, or, if not, whose lodgings they would repair to. Ned knew that they couldn’t spend every night together, but long-term caution was a poor argument against the moonlit curve of Julian’s lips. 

“They seem idyllic.” 

Ned listened for a trace of irony but heard none. Instead, Julian sounded almost wistful. Was this something he wanted, or something he worried Ned did? Or neither -- simply the recognition of another’s happiness, with no reflection on their own? 

They walked on in silence, both deep in thought. 

“I do have a question about Jewish customs,” Julian said, perhaps a minute before they would have to decide their destinations. 

“I’m no expert, but I’ll do my best to answer it.”

“Is it quite usual for a married woman’s brother to remain living with her? I thought Jews were like Catholics: keen on marriage.”

Ned slowed his pace a fraction, hoping only to delay their goodbyes. “I’ve never asked,” he said. “They’ve been kind enough not to comment on my own bachelorhood; I thought it only proper to return the favour.” Once or twice he had entertained the suspicion that their reasons for not asking were similar to his own, but could never quite bring himself to follow the thought through. And that would still not explain Mrs Taylor’s silence on the matter. 

“Ah,’ Julian said. His own pace had slowed in turn.

Sadly, unless they slowed to the point of parody, they could not help but reach Euston Road.

“Would you--?”

“Shall we--?”

Julian’s mouth quirked. “Can I offer you a nightcap?”

Ned was powerless to say no. “Over which we could discuss the finer points of Talmudic domain designation?”

“And politics,” Julian agreed. “Mustn’t forget politics.”

The anticipation leant a thrill to the crisp night air. 

“I’d be delighted.”

Tomorrow was for caution. 

For all Julian’s wit, it transpired he did, in fact, want to discuss the finer points of Talmudic domain designation. Or, at least, why Ned was so interested in them. 

“The question of the canon,” Julian said. “It will be improved by this addition?”

“Of course,” Ned said. He couldn’t think why Julian was asking, unless he just enjoyed hearing Ned lecture. He’d never been interested in the vagaries of metaphysical grammar. “We need a well-understood reconfiguration of property type, and this has been refined past anything modern scholars could attempt.” 

“And if it wouldn’t? Be improved, that is.”

“All proposed amendments are thoroughly tested before they can reach debate. I could have sworn you knew that.”

Julian’s lips, perhaps loosened by the wine, hinted at frustration. “I truly am glad your friendship and your metaphysical interests align here. But if they didn’t?”

Ned wasn’t sure he understood, but he tried to give the question due consideration. If Jewish metaphysics weren’t so engaging, would his friendship with Taylor have begun, let alone flourished? That wasn’t what Julian was asking, surely. Or if Jewish metaphysics weren’t so good, would he care about Jewish metaphysicians at all?

It was a strange counterfactual, harder still because he couldn’t see the answer Julian wanted, or why. 

Honesty, perhaps, would have to do. 

“It would always be better, I think. I hope. To view metaphysics through only one lens is --” He paused, frustrated at his inability to articulate something that seemed so clear to him. “-- it’s to imagine a single pebble can tell us of the whole ocean. I can’t imagine a world where my interests wouldn’t align here: to exclude Jewish metaphysicians can only be damaging to us and to them.” 

It was the first time Ned had considered the question along these lines. He wasn’t sure if he had answered what Julian was asking, but he was grateful nonetheless for the chance to put something so fundamental into words, however clumsily. 

“All too often we petition only as we’ve been taught,” he said, thinking of his life before the Taylors, his life before Miss Frost. “If only a fool doesn’t learn from the past, only a damned fool lets it dictate the future.”

“You do have a way of looking at the world, Ned,” Julian said. Ned thought he heard approval there. 

The silence between them may have been easier on Julian’s part, but it grew more troubled on Ned’s. It was hard to imagine that he’d learned all his lessons already; what waste and injustice was he still missing? 

They didn’t speak again until they were safely in Julian’s lodgings, the door shut and locked behind them. 

Julian turned to face Ned. “Shall we?”

In response, Ned seized him by the shoulders and kissed him firmly. The element of surprise helped him back Julian against the wall -- something on Julian’s list they both found extremely satisfying -- and look him square in the face. 

_I love you in any grammar,_ he thought loudly. Julian was understandably skittish of the word, and Ned saw no need to push. _I am yours for as long as you will have me,_ he continued silently, watching Julian’s eyes until the subtle softening that meant he could proceed. 

A very enjoyable few minutes followed.

 _And,_ Ned added in silence as he kissed Julian again, breathless and giddy, _I begin to believe that you are mine._

#

Julian waited nervously for the vote to end. Miss Frost had invited him to sit with her, but Julian preferred to pace. A week ago he hadn’t even known of this vote, and now he was as anxious as any expectant father. He was glad there was no one to see him -- Taylor being off with de Rothschild, and Ned, of course, standing in the Lobby to be counted. 

His body still ached pleasantly with the memory of last night’s exertions. Had he known moral philosophy would excite such passions in Ned, he might have tried it sooner. Perhaps next a discussion on the nature of Plato’s philosopher king? 

Ned’s world was so full of certainties. Injustices to fight and metaphysics to conquer. Julian hoped he would never be the one to pull those two paths apart -- and that if and when Ned was forced to choose, Julian would be there to help him. 

Julian continued to pace. 

At the last count, Ned and Taylor could account for around three hundred and fifty of the four hundred and thirty three votes at play. Just over one hundred and fifty belonged to each side, with the rest abstentions and absences. By now, they should know the result. 

The news would have reached de Rothschild and Taylor, inside the building but unable to enter the chambers themselves. 

Julian considered gnawing on his own thumbnail. He had never had the habit, but it wasn’t too late to learn. 

The first metaphysician to leave the metaphysical wing of the Commons was a man Julian didn’t recognise. Nonetheless, Julian rushed up to him. 

“Excuse me,” he began, reasonably sure that grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking wasn’t the done thing, even within the Society. 

“The amendment?” the man answered. “Terrible shame. One hundred and seventy four to two hundred and eight. Bad business, you mark my words.”

Julian’s heart fell. Poor Taylor. Poor Emmy Taylor, too, all those books of Jewish wisdom exposed with nothing to show for it. 

“If you ask me,” the man continued, “we should never have elected them in the first place. Soon half the canon will be unrecognisable heathen muck.”

Julian felt the beginnings of a smile form on his face. “The amendment passed?” he checked. 

“That’s what I said,” the man said. He gave Julian a disapproving frown and walked on, muttering as he went, “Bad business, I say. Terribly bad business.”

Before Julian’s beginnings of a smile could reach their adult form, other metaphysicians began spilling out of the Commons buildings, talking and laughing as they went. Ned was walking with two men Julian thought he might have shared an office with at some point. When he saw Julian waiting, he nodded in salute. 

“Two hundred and eight to one hundred and seventy four,” he said in greeting. “With twenty abstentions -- including Hoxton -- and thirty one absences.”

“Congratulations,” Julian said, shaking his hand. “Very well done.”

“I understand we may have you to thank for a few of them,” Ned said. “Smith mentioned you’d been doing a little light canvassing here and there.”

Julian brushed it off. “And Taylor? Is he pleased?”

“Ecstatic. He should be with us in-- Ah!” he said, spotting Taylor in the sea of black gowns. “Over here!”

Grins and handshakes were exchanged all round. A hearty invitation to dinner was extended to both Julian and Ned, and accepted just as warmly. Julian vowed privately to buy Lennox an extremely stiff drink. 

They were still congratulating each other as they walked up the steps to Ned’s offices, until Ned flung open the door and announced:

"Two hundred and eight to one hundred and seventy four. Worthing voted with us." 

Miss Frost raised an eyebrow at him, but Julian wasn’t sure he noticed. 

"And Beresford and Knight didn't even vote."

“Very good, Mr Mathey,” Miss Frost said.

"Pardon my presumption," Taylor said, "but you don't seem entirely surprised."

Miss Frost treated him to an expression that might have bordered on knowing.  

"Well, Aggie said she'd take care of Mr Worthing for me, after I corrected the stitching on her little boy's collar of protection. And another young lady, who I think would prefer to remain nameless, may have kept Mr Beresford busy this afternoon in return for some help with a small curative.” 

Julian was relieved to see he wasn't the only one at a loss. Ned was wearing the same expression of horrified fascination that normally meant Julian had his hands on a deck of cards, and Taylor had turned pale. 

"But I can't think who would have delayed Mr Knight," Miss Frost continued. "Unless Maddie decided to take the initiative. Goodness."

Ned drew breath, no doubt to move the conversation as far away from Miss Barton’s initiative as possible. 

"Mr Mathey?" Miss Frost said before he could speak. "Out of the purest idle curiosity, how did Bankes vote?"

"Against," Ned and Taylor said instantly. 

"Ah." Miss Frost's voice was mild. "I had hoped it wouldn't come to that." She clapped her hands together briskly. "Anyway! I’m sure I’ll see the full list in due course. Gentlemen, shall I make some tea?"

She rose to go to the kitchenette. Julian took a step back. 

#

Julian had clearly been hovering on the edge of saying something each about Challice ever since their conversation in St James Park. Ned didn’t like to push, but he didn’t like to wait, either, not when he’d seen the effect silence could have on their understanding. 

There had been no question of parting the previous evening -- they had stumbled home to Ned’s lodgings drunk and happy, shushing each other with the high spirits of careless undergraduates, not professional men of an age approaching respectability. 

In the morning, they woke up slowly. They dressed, arranged the couch as if Julian had spent an uncomfortable few hours sleeping off the worst of his excesses, and were very nearly presentable by the time Mrs Clewett appeared with hot coffee, toasted muffins and a sympathetic smile. She was just glad Ned was looking after himself, she said, not working all hours in those offices of his. 

Ned managed a few words of thanks, and Julian even remembered to mutter something gracious. Mrs Clewett patted Ned softly on the cheek as she left, voicing a set of harmless and cheerful inanities that somehow managed to suggest Ned would have more luck finding a young lady if he left Julian to fend for himself. 

Julian did not seem any more disgruntled after this suggestion than before, but it was hard to tell before his second cup of coffee. 

Ned let himself enjoy the tiny, delightful crease between Julian’s eyebrows for a moment. It would disappear as soon as the coffee set in, and he counted himself privileged to have seen it so often. 

Now was the time to think carefully. He could leave Julian to his own thoughts until they percolated outwards, trusting him to learn from their previous misunderstandings. Or he could ask outright. Or he could take a leap of faith. He’d get another chance to explain himself if necessary; he and Julian had come too far to be felled by a few clumsy words on either part. 

“Julian?”

“Ned.”

“When we dined with the Taylors, did you envy them on my part, or on your own?”

It was a direct hit, and one Ned had taken no pleasure in. 

Julian squared his jaw and, after a few moments of thought, answered, “I must admit I’m selfishly glad that if I’m this way, you are too. But if our desires were different, could we not each have this --” He motioned between the two of them. “-- with a wife? With a family? Before you, I wouldn’t have entertained it, but now--”

Oh. Poor Julian. Poor, poor Julian. Ned wondered if the next time they made love, he shouldn’t voice some of his thoughts. Only a small selection, though; he wanted to reassure him, not embarrass him into an early grave. 

For now, though, they would both have to suffer a little embarrassment. 

“I’m happy,” Ned said. “If I were different, I couldn’t have this happiness. Perhaps others, but not this one.” He watched Julian’s face, hoping that he was making himself clear. “Not because of the act, however pleasant, nor the nature of the desire. If I were different, I couldn’t have this happiness, because I couldn’t have you.”

Julian’s lips parted. Ned had seen him surprised before. He had even, many years ago, seen him scared. This was, perhaps, the first time he had seen him stunned. 

For a long time, Julian didn’t answer. Then he rose to kiss Ned, a quick, dry press of lips that still somehow managed to take Ned’s breath away. 

When he pulled back, he was wearing a smile that Ned knew, with all the certainty he had at his disposal, he would love for the rest of his life. 

“I’m glad, old thing,” Julian said, voice barely shaking at all. “I’m very glad.”

###  
End  
###

**Author's Note:**

> Note 1: Those familiar with 19th century British Jewish history may recognise where I've borrowed liberally from life. De Rothschild was a real person -- Lionel de Rothschild, first elected MP in 1847 but unable to take his seat because of the Christian oath he'd have to swear. When the House of Lords rejected the bill aiming to change this, the House of Commons formed a committee to explain why they rejected this rejection -- to which they appointed de Rothschild. :)
> 
> The bit about his laugh probably isn't true, though. 
> 
> Note 2: I couldn't fit it in, but purplefringe's and my headcanon is that Mr Knight (who didn't show up to the vote) was "delayed" by the Urtica Mordax, who is very fond of both Ned and religious tolerance.


End file.
